


Housesitting at the Bakery

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Eventual Sex, F/M, First Kiss, Sleepovers, Storms, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Espella, The Storyteller, and Mrs. Eclaire have gone to London for the weekend, leaving Eve with the task of helping Sir Barnham with the bakery business until they return. Naturally, it's not going to be smooth sailing.





	1. Chapter 1

"Oh, _there_ you are, Eve! Get in here, child!" Mrs. Eclaire clucked and ushered the young woman into the bakery. "Any later and I'm sure you'd have been stuck in the rain. Those clouds are brewing," she sighed, looking at the horizon. "I hope it's not a bad omen…" She put a hand to her mouth. Eve stared at her, noting how different she looked when not dressed for work. Her hands seemed almost infantile without the large, thick mitts that protected them from the heat of the oven, and without the kerchief her hair had a mind of its own, curling up into the air as though reaching for heaven.

"You'll be halfway to London by the time it begins," Eve assured her, pulling the strap of her bag over her head and letting it slump down in a chair. "You shouldn't worry about omens. It's a simple weekend trip."

"Oh, I know," the baker admitted, one hand tucking a stray lock of hair back into place beneath an imagined kerchief. "I do thank you again for agreeing to come stay here for the weekend."

"It's no trouble," Eve replied gently. "I don't mind watching the bakery. You don't need to worry about a thing. Just enjoy your trip; you'll love London, I know it. And Mr. Cantabella has promised to take you to some of the finest bakeries there; you'll be so busy getting new ideas that the weekend will be over before you know it."

Mrs. Eclaire gave an involuntary grin. "I must admit, I haven't been this excited since… well… since I can remember!" she laughed. "Going to see a new place, even though I must have seen it before, at some point," she trailed off thoughtfully. "In any case, the bakery will be fine by itself. It's more Zacharias that I'm concerned over."

"Zacharias took care of himself for years before coming to work for you," Eve pointed out with a hint of amusement. "I think he can handle himself for one weekend." But Mrs. Eclaire was still doubtful.

"Himself, yes. But this is the first time he'll be watching the bakery by himself for more than a few days. It's very taxing on a person, even someone as experienced as I am. I don't know _how_ I survived without him and Espella; those children help me more than they'll ever know," she declared. "Speaking of which…" She walked over to the stairs that led to the family's living quarters on the second floor. "Espe-lla! Get down here, child! Aren't you ready yet?!" She paused, listening. "Your father will be here just any time now!"

"Almost ready!" the girl called back. "Give me ten more minutes, Aunt Patty!" Mrs. Eclaire shook her head, pursing her lips but saying nothing as she clomped back over to the table and sat down. Eve took the initiative to sit as well.

"In any case," Mrs. Eclaire continued, waving her hand dismissively, "it's a tough job and Zacharias has only been here four years. I've made enough to keep him well-off for tomorrow, but he'll be up to his eyebrows in work and it's enough stress to send someone mad."

"I don't know how much help I can be to him," Eve said hesitantly, tugging on her sleeves and staring down at the worn wood of the table. "I'm not the best cook, and the only bread I ever tried to make rose too high and turned the oven into a doughy mess." Mrs. Eclaire stared at her a moment, as though she couldn't decide how someone could mess up something as simple as _bread_ , but then she shook her head.

"You just help the customers and keep the books in order, and let Zacharias concentrate on the cooking. Between the two of you, I'm sure you can keep this place afloat for the weekend." Her smile turned into a sly grin that crept across her face like a cat after cream. "You know, you two work so _well_ together. I used to admire that when I'd go to see the Court; I always though the Storyteller was exactly right when he ordered that child to go and help you out with all those witch cases that kept piling up day after day." She picked at a splinter on the table. "Actually, I was only a year or two older than you when my husband and I founded this little bakery. Perhaps you and Zacharias might ought to thinking about opening a business together. I'm sure it would do well; you're so organized, and the boy has good potential…."

"Oh, um… perhaps," Eve laughed awkwardly, feeling a blush work its way up her neck as she suddenly became interested in a tray of day-old croissants. "But to be honest, I'm not sure if I want to spend my life working at a business…." Mrs. Eclaire rested her head in one hand, brow arching.

"Oh? And just what do you plan on doing?" she asked nosily. "After all, you're already in your twenties, you know. These are the prime years of your life. You need to me making a plan, settling down, maybe having a few children." Eve had no clue how to respond, but thankfully Espella saved her from having to think up some polite excuse. The younger girl bounded down the stairs, two bags in each hand. "Espella, what on earth are you bringing, girl?! It's only for the weekend; we're not _moving_ to London!"

"I wanted to be prepared, Aunt Patty," the girl answered indifferently, grabbing a jellied roll from the counter and biting into it with relish as she joined Eve and her guardian at the table. "The last time I was in London, I didn't have time to enjoy it since I was running everywhere, and then I was in court. I want to really have a good time this time," she explained around bites of her sugary breakfast. "Oh, do you think we can look up the professor and Luke? I'd love to visit with them again! I even know where the university is, so—"

"Well now, I don't know," Mrs. Eclaire interrupted, "we don't want to just barge in on them for no reason."

"Please?" The baker frowned, but looked ready to give in.

"We'll speak to your father about it," she said after a moment, shifting responsibility onto the old man. Espella brightened and polished off her food, licking the powdered sugar from her fingers before turning to Eve.

"Try to get along with Sir Barnham, Eve. I know he's dense and if he gets in a mood he's hard to work with, but he'll make sure that you won't have to do much if you let him. Just keep your tempers so the neighbors don't gossip," she ordered with a wink.

"I'll try my best," Eve replied in a deadpan tone, wanting to roll her eyes. Espella had only worked with Zacharias for four years… _try more than double that amount, Espella. Then see how worrisome he can be._ But she held her tongue, only smiling a little forcefully at her friend. Mrs. Eclaire made a face and seemed ready to add her two sense, but then the door opened with a blast of chilly morning air.

"Are we ready to leave now?" The Storyteller asked, looking around at them gathered at the table. "We should hurry, or we'll be late for our first appointment, "he continued, looking down at his watch. He noticed Espella's bags by her chair and his eyebrows rose, but he said nothing against the multitude of luggage. Barnham came through the door behind him, keys to the boat dangling from his hand.

"Good Morning, Miss Eve," he greeted warmly when he saw her at the table. "Are you ready for this weekend?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," she answered, the smile freezing on her face when Mrs. Eclaire winked at her. "Um…" She stared back at the baker, feeling the same uncomfortable shyness as before. She had a sneaking suspicion that if Mrs. Eclaire knew she could get away with it, she would be playing a hard-driven game of matchmaker. _What's the matter with her? I'm not even interested in dating, much less with_ _ **him**_ _._ Still, her eyes flitted back up to watch him as he struggled with the task of managing both Espella and Mrs. Eclaire's bags: a feat that was nigh on impossible for anyone with only two arms.

Sure, _everyone_ knew that he was one of the handsomest men in Labyrinthia, and even the tourists clambered over each other just for a glimpse of him in full armor on the back of his horse. All the women of Labyrinthia would give their right arm for ten minutes of undivided attention from him, and Espella had told her that profit in the bakery had almost tripled thanks to his presence the past few years. But the question was: how did _Eve_ feel about him? She'd often wondered the same thing, every time someone hinted at a secret tryst or smiled knowingly at them as they worked together on the reconstruction project, which was finally nearing its end.

He was kind and gentle to everyone, and he was a loyal friend. She knew he'd give her the shirt off his back if she needed it. And he showed her a side he hardly showed anyone else, even going so far as to argue with her to the point of shouting if they disagreed on something. They'd been coworkers for years and she considered him worth praise and merit, but did she have any sort of feelings for him? That, she couldn't say.

Every time she tried to think about it, she only ended up more puzzled than when she started. The problem was that she'd never even had a crush on anyone before. Her teenage years had been so busy between school and taking care of the town with her father and the Storyteller that she rarely had time to look up, much less pine after some _boy_. And every time her father would encourage her to go out with people her own age (and actually succeed in making her go), she never found anyone relatively attractive.

Even if she had, she would have been far too shy to say anything about it. In the end, she had grown up alone, lived alone, and when her father had died, she'd truly _felt_ alone. She was just now learning how to form relationships, something that she should have learned in primary school. But now was not the time to be bitter about squandered opportunities. She had moved past that, but those years of solitude and keeping up the veil for Espella's sake had left her isolated from the community. Outside of Barnham and Espella, she still had no real friends her own age.

But then again… before Barnham had come, she'd never noticed other boy's appearances. He was the first man that had ever made her stop and actually lookbefore. The problem was that at the time, she hadn't been looking on with desire. It was more awe and a sense of confusion, mingled together in a way that made her think. She still remembered him standing beside the Storyteller in the Court lobby, dressed to the nines in his new armor and looking around curiously at the furnishings.

"This is to be your assistant, High Inquisitor. May I introduce you to Sir Zacharias Barnham?" At the time Eve had felt little more than exasperation, as she'd firmly told the Storyteller that she could handle things on her own, and didn't need an assistant. But he'd stepped past the old man and held out his hand, a serious, yet amiable smile on his face.

"Zacharias Barnham," he had repeated as he took his hand in hers and given it a firm shake. "I'm pleased to be given the opportunity to work with you," he had added, as though he'd known about her long before now. She knew that he'd most likely come with the newest batch of Labyrinthians that morning, and the hypnosis was already working the way it needed to. He was making false memories left and right. The thought was already giving Eve chills, long before her father's suicide. Something about it had just seemed wrong, and yet—wasn't that just the way things had to be?

"High Inquisitor Darklaw," she had introduced herself, looking him straight in the eye. Thinking back now, it was his eyes that had fascinated her. She'd never seen anyone with such a color; his irises were the light gray of a winter morning, but the overall effect on his eyes made them look dark and enigmatic. No one in Labyrinthia had eyes like his. Looking over him quickly, she had decided then and there that no one in Labyrinthia had _anything_ like him. That fiery hair (she'd later learned of the temper that matched), the tall, lean build, the way he carried himself, and even the phrases he used.

But she hadn't been attracted to him, not really. Just more interested in him; that interest was what kept him around until she realized that he made her life easier with his work drive and motivation to help everyone he came across. With him doing the heavy lifting, so to speak, she found herself with more time to devote to her Shades, helping them to finish their work and be reinstated into the town system.

Even now, as she waved goodbye to Mrs. Eclaire and Mr. Cantabella, and let Espella clutch her in a quick embrace, she watched him loading up the bags into Mary's borrowed milk cart and waited for some sign, any sign; a faster heartbeat, a blush, a sudden desire to hold his hand, _anything._ But all she felt was the warmth of the bakery behind her, and the crisp morning air at her front. He looked over at her standing in the threshold and smiled, offering a quick wave.

"I'll be back in about two hours," he called out to her. The smile was his usual dazzling expression, all white teeth and sparkling eyes. She smiled back and nodded, waving to them as he picked up the handles of the cart and they clattered as one down the cobbled street, only dropping her arm when they turned the bend at the potter's and were lost from view. _Yes_ , she decided at once, _he is handsome_. She tried for a moment to decide whether acknowledging that he was handsome also meant that she was attracted to him. After all, one could think another girl was pretty without being attracted to them; did the same thing go for men as well?

No answer came to her mind, and so she turned around and went back into the bakery, just as confused as she always had been, and most likely always would be.

* * *

The first few customers began arriving at 8:00 on the dot, and then it was a steady stream of people pouring in for the day's supplies. They were all surprised to see Eve at the counter instead of the usual baker and her two lackeys, but they greeted her politely and if they thought anything strange about it, they didn't ask. Only Ridelle the Librarian had the gall to wonder why Eve was there by herself, but she was pacified by the explanation that the baker had taken a trip to the mainland on the Storyteller's orders and didn't press any further. Mr. Cantabella still had enough power in the town that the citizens listened to him without question.

It seemed only a half hour instead of two when Barnham returned. He donned one of Mrs. Eclaire's aprons, rolled up his sleeves, and began working on some fresh dough while Eve continued to help the customers. When she wasn't busy, she was either cleaning the counters or taking stock of what had already been bought; she could see now why Mrs. Eclaire had thought it too hard a task for Barnham to do on his own. Every time she turned around there was someone wanting an order they placed three days ago, or a child crying over a dropped pastry that had been accidentally squashed under another customer's boot, or someone ready to pay for their items, or someone asking if she knew when such-and-such would be in stock and could she perhaps put in a forward order for when Mrs. Eclaire returned? By midmorning her head was spinning, and she felt a new sense of respect for the portly baker for _ever_ doing it on her own in the first place.

And it wasn't that Barnham wasn't helping her, either; he was just as busy as she was. He would be taking something out of the oven to cool, and between blinks he'd be across the store, helping a little old lady get a box of pastries off the top shelf, and then he'd be signing for a delivery of fresh vegetables at the door, only to be walking up from the basement with three heavy bags of flour in the crook of his arm. Eve had no idea where he got the energy to move so fast, and then a thought hit her when she watched him juggling the bags of flour while bending down to pick up a dropped toy and hand it back to the child it belonged to.

Didn't he usually wear his armor when working? She'd held his gauntlets before when he had to remove them quickly during fieldwork; they weren't light, and she knew for a fact that the entirety of his armor weighed almost 50 kilograms. While she inwardly balked at the thought of him doing the same thing he was doing now in his armor, another part of her realized that he was probably used to it, and felt very light and agile without it. She didn't get a chance to ask him about it until the bell tower rang the noon hour and he turned the sign in the window around to announce that the bakery was closed for lunch.

"Zacharias, I thought you told me that you preferred to work in your armor?" She had collapsed at the table, her legs trembling and the silence echoing in her ears after the loud hustle and bustle of customers filling the small space with their body heat and noise. He brought her a glass of water and a sandwich, piled thick with meat and vegetables. When on earth had he had time to make that?! He had one for himself too, and sat down across from her after draping the apron over the floury counter.

"I do," he said before taking a large bite of the sandwich. He spoke again around the mouthful of food. "'Tis being restored by Master Blacksmith." Eve aahed and took a daintier bite of her own sandwich—it was delicious, but then again she was very hungry. Most knights worked on an annual schedule when it came to having their weapons and armor repaired and renewed, depending on the first letter of their last name. It kept the blacksmiths from being overwhelmed as well as allowing for a smooth, orderly round out of forces. Of course, since there were no more witches to chase they weren't needed as often; however, they served as security guards and policemen, so they weren't without their purpose.

"So, what do you think about your first day on the job?" he asked teasingly, having nearly polished off his meal in the time it had taken her to take three bites. He pulled a piece of ham out of the sandwich and tore it in half, dropping it to the floor. Eve looked over the edge of the table to see Constantine, and Eve the cat, sitting at what seemed to be their appointed stations. She blinked in surprise, wondering where the animals had been all morning. She'd never seen a cat and a dog get along before, but the mutt didn't seem to mind the black cat—or, more than likely, Eve didn't having a puppy bounding along after her and helping her to get into mischief. They took their halves of the ham and went running back through the door that led to the alley, treasures in hand (or mouth, as it were).

"A typical Saturday, right?" she responded at last. He laughed and nodded, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and following it with the entire glass of water in four long gulps. She watched this almost barbaric display with a small sense of unease, but otherwise it didn't affect her. He only ate like every other man his age that lived within the town borders. She'd tried to hypnotize it out of the Shades, but it never really worked as well as she would have liked.

"Makes the day go by quickly, though. 'Tis only four and a half hours until closing time." He suddenly looked at her, tilting his head like a dog. "That reminds me, you're staying in Espella's room, aren't you? I heard her saying something to me about it."

"Yes. There's no reason for me to walk back and forth to the bakery every day when two bedrooms are empty," she replied, quoting Mrs. Eclaire word for word.

"Then what would you like for supper? If we want it ready by the time we close up, we'll have to start working on it now." Eve froze, mind blank. Supper? She took another bite of her sandwich to stall for time, not sure what to say.

"Well… to be honest… I usually just buy something already made from the market on the way home. I don't often—" She trailed off, not wanting to admit that she hardly used her nice kitchen for more than stirring porridge for breakfast and washing dirty dishes. She was hardly the most culinary person. She always had Shades that were willing to cook their Great Witch a meal; in fact, everything she'd ever tried to cook she ended up burning, or undercooking it. Nevertheless, it was always inedible.

"Buy something?" Barnham repeated incredulously, then his grin widened. "Well, tonight I'll cook you a nice supper, and you won't have to worry about spending your money. How does that sound?"

"Oh—d-don't go to any trouble for me," she tried to make up some excuse, but he was already lost in his own world of planning his 'nice supper'.

"I'm thinking maybe a roast chicken—I know we'll get three from the farmer later today when he comes. And potatoes of course, and carrots… I can't do beans as well as Mrs. Patty, so we'll have to do without, but we can have some of the leftover rolls with butter to make up for it. Sounds good, right?" he asked, almost hopefully. She nodded, no excuse coming to her aid, and he looked at her as though she'd just put the moon up in the sky for him. "It'll be great, just wait and—that's the bell?" he exclaimed, glancing up at the clock hanging over the door. "It's time to open up again. Hurry up and finish—I'll wipe down the counters before turning the sign."

* * *

The store stayed busy until an hour before closing time, when the sun began to set and people began to head home after another long day. Eve worked hard on cleaning up the store while Barnham alternately cooked bread to refill the shelves and worked on their supper. It was quiet in the store now, the waning light casting long shadows on the walls and shining in her eyes every time she passed by the window. Finally the bell rang for 5:00 and Barnham went outside to close up the casements and shutter them, throwing her into temporary darkness lit only by the crackling fire. She found the matches and began to light the candles in the wall sconces while he finished locked up.

"Whew! What a day," he sighed happily as he came in, locking the door behind him. He went to the oven and basted the chicken, checking the potatoes as their skins slowly turned golden from the juices. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, it was… eventful." Physically she was fine, but she was mentally exhausted. She wiped some flour off her shirt and breathed in deeply, the smell of the chicken making her stomach growl. The second wind she'd gotten from the sandwich was gone, and she sat down at the table and began to count the money so that she could update the records while he busied himself at the counter. He hummed a cheerful tune that she couldn't quite place as he cleaned up, washing the trays and scrubbing the counters until they shone like new. By the time she had added up the profit and entered it neatly into Mrs. Eclaire small account book, he was setting the table for dinner. "Do you want me to help?"

"No, I have it," he said as he pushed the candlestick to the middle of the table, piling every available surface high with the chicken, a bowl full of stewed potatoes and carrots, and then the butter and rolls and their own plates and cups. She sat, somewhat bashfully, as he poured her ale from a jug and then sat across from her, filling his plate quickly. She helped herself as well, the silence between them growing now that they'd both stopped moving so much. She found herself watching the muscles in his arms, how they moved so fluidly beneath the tanned skin as he cut apart the chicken on his plate and spread butter over the potatoes as well as his role. She remembered seeing a diagram of muscles in her father's study; it was hard to equate that picture to what was going on in his arms… _Why am I so fascinated by his arms?_ she thought in annoyance, stuffing her mouth with potatoes and chewing quickly. _I must be more exhausted than I thought._

Eve and Constantine came by again for their complimentary piece of chicken, but this time they stayed in the kitchen, lying together close by the oven. Eve curled her tail over her nose and went to sleep while the pup chewed noisily on a bone, his tiny helmet glinting in the firelight. The two humans ate in companionable silence until half the chicken and most of the vegetables were gone, both of them having two plates apiece. Finally Eve was too stuffed to move and relaxed in the chair.

"What now?" she asked Barnham as she helped him to clear the table. He washed while she dried, stacking the plates and bowls up neatly and then handing them back to him so that she didn't have to strain trying to put them on the high shelves. She had no idea what their after-supper routines were; she always went home before they cleared the table when she was invited to eat at the bakery. Barnham paused, drying his hands on a towel as he glanced quickly at her, and then away.

"Well… usually Mrs. Patty would work on her sewing or read, while Espella and I play cards." Eve blinked in surprise; she knew Espella enjoyed playing cards, but she had no idea that Barnham did as well.

"What kind of cards?" she asked curiously. This was something new…. Barnham shrugged nonchalantly.

"Crates, mostly." She looked at him in confusion. "Well, that's what I call it. Espella and Mrs. Eclaire call it…" His brow furrowed for a moment. "Crazy Eights?" he wagered, still sounding unsure.

"Oh, yes. I know that game." _Crates?_ She shrugged; maybe that's what he called the game in his past life. "So you two gamble, then." She was teasing, but tried to inject some proper disapproval into her words. She knew he frequented the tavern on the 'bad' side of town; he was probably a good gambler.

"Not money," he interjected sheepishly. "We bet on little things that the other would miss. Right now I have one of her favorite books, and she won my second-best quill last Thursday. Mrs. Eclaire scolds us if we bet money. She says 'tis indecent for a young girl to learn how to gamble from a man, even if he has morals like my own."

"I agree with her," Eve proclaimed, but Barnham only looked at her strangely.

"She's better than I am at poker and gin. I believe she plays with the Storyteller," he admitted. "She knew all the rules before we began our nightly routines."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Eve sighed. "But then again, I know how to play too, so I can't complain." Her own father had taught her, on long winter's nights where there wasn't much to do and the light was too poorly to read by. Now that she thought about it, most likely Mr. Cantabella and her father had played together, before they grew distant. But she'd never gambled a day in her life.

"You have nothing to wager," Barnham pointed out with a chuckle. "But 'tis no harm in playing for sport." That in itself shouldn't have irritated her, but the way he said it sounded dismissive.

"I have plenty to wager. You're only afraid that I'll be better than you, and win everything you own," she replied challengingly. His eyes narrowed and he tossed the towel onto the counter, turning to face her fully.

"If that's how you see it, then I'll be more than happy to face you in battle," he avowed. "Now, if you are indeed the victor—however unlikely that might be—what do you want from me?" She thought a moment, and then as if it had come from heaven itself, the perfect wager came to the front of her mind. Something that she'd been wanting from him for the past few years, but had never managed to convince him to do.

" _When_ I win, you have to clean off your desk on Monday, polish the desks and chairs, sort out that overcrowded bulletin board, and then scrub the office from top to bottom," she declared. " _And_ throw out that horrible drawing of me that you keep throwing daggers at," she added for good measure.

"No! 'Tis a physical thing you're supposed to ask for, not chores!" he complained, but she crossed her arms and stood firm.

"It is physical," she argued adamantly. "Physical labor. I'm always the one that has to clean up, and I refuse to touch that moldering pile of parchment that _you_ call a workspace." His face colored and his jaw worked, but he was able to offer no other arguments and was forced to give in. "Besides, if you win…?"

"If I win, which I _will_ win, I want—" He looked at her, looked around the bakery as if searching for an idea, and then his face lit up. Almost immediately he seemed to rethink it, and then decided again on the same thing. SHE could see the gears turning in his head as he looked up at her decisively. "A kiss."

"A what?" she asked, thinking that she had misheard. There was no way that he had just said what she thought he'd said.

"A kiss," he repeated, a little louder. _He did. He did say what I thought he said._ He saw the look on her face and snickered. "Come now, Miss Eve. 'Tis not like you're a schoolgirl anymore. I'm not asking for you to disrobe in front of me… 'tis only one kiss. And besides," he sneered, leaning in. "I thought you were going to _win_."

"I am. So you can go ahead and put the thought out of your head right this minute." She turned up her nose. "But—why a kiss?" He had moved across the room to a cabinet, opening a draw and rummaging around, presumably for the cards. "Hmm?"

"Well, 'tis just—I'm curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know." He laughed at that, turning around with the pack of cards, held together neatly with a band.

"Aye, that it did. But still.…" He stared at her a moment longer before turning and walking to the table. He cleared his throat and began to shuffle the cards. "Will best of ten be sufficient?" She nodded and he began to deal. "Then let's begin, before it gets too late."

* * *

Nine hands later, Eve was beginning to sweat. She'd won four hands, he five. She had underestimated his abilities, but now she could see that he wasn't lying when he said he played with Espella all the time. He was truly proficient, and his years as an Inquisitor had given him a perfect neutral expression for when he was in a bind and didn't want her to know. Now if he won this hand, she'd have lost the game and would have to pay up. That part didn't bother as much as the loss of a clean office did. But, if _she_ won this hand, they'd have to have a tiebreaker.

At the moment, things weren't looking well. She had double the cards he had, and unless she could figure out what suits were in his hand, he'd easily beat her. She glared as he threw down an eight of spades. _Damn him._ He looked her right in the eyes with a smug expression.

"I call hearts," he said triumphantly, and she began to seethe. _Damn him!_ He knew perfectly well that they'd cleared almost all of the hearts earlier in the match! She didn't have a single one in her hand, and who knew how many were left. One card? Two? How many would she have to draw until she found it? She prayed to her lucky stars that it wouldn't be many as she began drawing, glaring swords—and every other weapon imaginable—at him. He only smirked widely as he watched her draw, fanning himself with his cards as he tilted his chair back on two legs. She had to draw seven cards before she finally found the six of hearts and threw it on the pile.

He countered with the six of diamonds, and then she was back in the game with the Jack. Maybe she could win this after all? A glimmer of hope welled inside her, only to be completely crushed as she threw down a four of clubs and he laughed out loud. He threw down his last card, the King, and raised both empty hands. Her shoulders slumped and she let the cards slip through her fingers and onto the table.

"I believe, if I count correctly, that I've won six games and you've only won four, Miss Eve." She closed her eyes and began to gather the cards, allowing him his moment of victory. It was a well-played match, but she had to admit that in this, she had been bested. "Now, about my payment."

"Yes, yes. You don't have to clean the office on Monday," she sighed. He helped her with the rest of the cards before blowing out one of the candles that was nearly burnt down to the wick.

" _And_ —?" She growled under her breath as she snapped the band back onto the cards and laid them to the side.

"And you get your kiss," she begrudgingly added. "Of all the foolish things to ask for. Curiosity, my boot." She stomped around the far side of the table, where he still sat patiently. _If he wants a damn kiss, I'll give him a kiss!_ But when she stood in front of him, two thoughts occurred to her: that she'd never kissed anyone before, and that she wasn't exactly sure how to do it. She had meant to just bend down and give it to him, but now that she thought about it, wouldn't his nose just get in the way? The thought quailed her momentarily and she motioned to him. "G-get up." _If I go in from the bottom, I won't be able to reach his nose_ , she thought to herself, glad to have cleared that up.

He stood and she put a hand on his shoulder, preparing to stand on her tiptoes to press her lips to his for the briefest moment possible. But he bent towards her and her plan went out the door, since she could reach his nose now. She sighed and her head weaved slightly as she tried to decide what the proper angle should be. He watched her and then she froze when his fingers brushed her jaw, tilting her head up. He'd never actually touched her before—not many people did. Not many people had a reason to. His fingers were calloused and rough against her skin as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear only to have it fall back down a moment later.

He moved closer and she sniffed, smelling something different. It—was it him? She breathed in softly, trying to distinguish the myriad of scents. There was the usual bakery aroma, and soap, but what was that third thing? Another quick inhale had the answer coming to her; it was polish. _Even if he's not wearing armor, he still smells like the polish…. How strange._ Never before had she thought about being close enough to someone that she could smell them before. Especially not _him_.

Their eyes met and he watched her carefully before leaning in, his head tilting to the side. _Of course he could too, why didn't I think—_ Every thought in her head stopped in its tracks when his lips met hers, his hand moving around to cup her jaw and tilt her head back. _O-oh…_ Her eyes fell closed, the trouble of keeping them open suddenly too much for her. Just when she thought she might be getting some semblance of brain function back, his lips moved over hers gently.

She trembled, something deep inside her responding to the movement and spreading a strange prickling heat through her limbs. Her legs shook and then his arm was around her, those strong muscles pressed into her back as he bent over her, supporting her. They broke apart and she still couldn't think, breathing hard as her heart began to race. She swallowed, trying to force her eyes open when he kissed her again, even more actively than before. Now his fingers were in her hair, and somehow her arm had slung itself around his neck, her other hand wrapped up in the fabric of his shirt.

"H-hey!" she managed to gasp when they broke apart the third time, pushing him away with all her strength. Her body felt weak, heavy and shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her body felt cold without his pressed up against her, despite the warmth still flooding through her veins and settling in her lower stomach. "You were only—" She wiped the edge of her mouth with her finger and tried again. "That was three kisses, not one!" she accused him, but her voice failed her and she only sounded lost instead of angry.

"Maybe I did get a little carried away," he admitted. Despite everything she felt, he looked almost blissful. His hair was mussed—did she do that? When?—and his eyes were hazy and unfocused. The look of it, strangely enough, made her feel proud. _I did that._ She squared her shoulders, ignoring her knocking knees, and gave him her best glare. It didn't do a thing to him, except maybe encourage him to smile a little wider. "I suppose that if you were truly of a mind, you could always just _take_ them back from me."

"W-what!?" She turned away, feeling the blood rushing to her face. "Don't talk foolishness! Your curiosity better have been abated, Sir Knight. That won't happen again."

"Why? Did you enjoy it too much, Lady Inquisitor?" he responded in the same tone, though he still had that smug air he'd donned after winning the card game. She glowered at him, but he was undeterred. "I kissed you _three_ times, which means that you didn't stop the second one," he pointed out. She frowned further in the face of his logic. _Damn him!_ She grabbed her bag near the door and strode quickly past him towards the stairs. She didn't have to take this sort of talk—it was late and she was ready for bed. He caught her by the wrist when she was almost past him, forcing her to turn around and look at him. His eyes roved across her face, as if searching for something.

"Sleep well, and if you require anything, be sure to ask me," he ordered in a softer tone before letting her go. She stumbled back a step, her heart fluttering in her chest, and then nodded quickly before practically running up the stairs. She fled to Espella's room and shut the door, sinking down onto the neatly made bed. Looking up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the girl's vanity—ruffled hair, swollen lips, tired, puzzled eyes, and bright pink cheeks. She looked down at her hands, still quivering slightly.

_What happened? What is this… this feeling?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OwO I forgot about this story. Here's the chapter. Sorry.

"Eve, come on!" The day was crystal bright, strung pendants fluttering lightly in the chilled breeze that lifted her hair. She stood before the main fountain, gazing up at the copper-green knight with his sword aloft, pointing towards the far-off morrow where Bezella existed no more. The water flecked her front, chilling her clothing and neck.

"Eve!" Espella stood up to her calves in the rippling water, her dress bunched up in one hand as she splashed along with a small hoard of children. Splashing and shouting, the two things they—in theory, at least—weren't allowed to do at a public water resource. She found her hands raised against the extra water from their endless churning.

"Espella, get down from there," she ordered as sternly as she could while dodging water. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the screaming of the delighted kids. "You're far too old to be bouncing about in such a manner!" she added, trying to be the proper role model.

"But Eve, 'tis fun!" Espella laughed, dancing around and kicking up water along with her heels. "Come on, lighten up! Join us!"

"Aye, join us, join us!" the children cried, hands cupped as they flung water in the air, droplets catching the sun with a brilliant sparkle.

"Absolutely not!" She backed away, but the water seemed to somehow follow her. She couldn't get far enough to be out of the line of fire, splashes of fat droplets interspersed with the fine mist that came naturally from the fountain. "Ugh!" She wiped at her face in vain, her hands just as wet as her cheeks.

"Oh, come along, Miss Eve." She squeaked in alarm as Barnham came up silently behind her, his hands clapping down on her shoulders. "It's just a bit of fun."

"Right!" Espella held out her hands and he took them, leaping over the short wall of the fountain in one movement and splashing everyone within a three foot radius. She shook back her wet curls, huffing as she pushed them out of her eyes.

"Zacharias!" He only laughed, booming and hearty as it joined with Espella's giggles and the children's shrieks.

"Eve," Espella shook her head fondly before squealing as the redhead pushed her under the fountain's direct spray, both hands over her hair as she became thoroughly wet.

"Your turn!" he called jovially, looking over his shoulder at her before holding out his hand. "'Tis fun, trust me!" he added, when she stayed still.

"I'm not letting you do that!" she protested, staring at the nearly translucent white sheen of Espella's dress. Did the girl have no shame? No one else seemed to notice.

"Miss Eve." He stepped one foot onto the stone ledge, reaching over to grab her wrist. She froze, the slick wetness of his palm warm against her frantic pulse, her eyes caught by his. "What's the matter?" His voice held the same soft, assuaging quality it had when he'd spoken to her in the bakery.

"I—I—" The right corner of his mouth turned up in a strange, nearly triumphant smirk.

"You look a little flustered." She tried to pull away, but a firm tug had her taking a few shaky steps in his direction.

"D-don't—" She found herself unable to look away, mind stalling mid-thought at the water catching on his eyelashes, a bead of it running from his damp hair to meet the rise of the scar on his brow.

"Is there something you require?" She shook her head dumbly, lips parting as she yanked at her wrist. Why did that question send her heart into her throat?  _What's happening to me?_

"Let go…" Turning her head, she closed her eyes and yanked harder. She needed to get away, to run to the forest, to the Court, to the lake; she needed a place of quiet to think, to understand what was going on.

"Miss Eve?" he asked again, his fingers iron bands. She shook her head harder, leaning with the effort of separating them. The water continued to pour over her until she was certain she was drowning in it, choked by the fluid and her own unfamiliar emotion.

" _Please_ —" Somewhere, faintly, there was a loud, rattling crash that seemed to shake her to the core. "Please, just—just be quiet a moment—" The water pounded in her ears, the children sounding more like howling demons, and even his quiet voice was grating.

He let go of her and she fell, and fell, and  _fell_ , all the way back into herself, waking with a loud gasp.

It was loud, dark, and wet; for a long, terrifying moment she had no way of knowing who she was, or where she was, or  _why_ she was there. There was a terrible roaring, a rapid, uneven clapping of wood against stone, and a fierce pounding that set the world around her in tremors. She reached out blindly, sinking into a sodden mass of thick wet as she struggled into a sitting position. Everything was wet, something was beating above her head, plinking and plunking off the shutters; in the distance there was a lonesome wailing that reminded her of some forlorn ghost.

Sitting up in the darkness, she felt the silliest urge to call out and see if anyone else was actually there. She felt five years old again, waking from a nightmare and alone in her bedroom, afraid that she was the only person left in the world until she called and her parents came to comfort her.

 _This is ridiculous; I'm over twenty years old now._ As she considered her options, a bolt of light shot across the sky, piercing the gaps between the shutters and illuminating the room through the skylight. She blinked against the brightness; her eyes were used to the pitch black, but saw enough to resettle her to a time a place in the split second before she had to screw them shut. She was in the bakery, in Espella's room, in Espella's  _bed_.

And it was wet when it shouldn't be.

 _Oh no, there must be a leak in the roof…._ She hadn't felt any rain falling on her, but she was soaked to the bone and the bedclothes, as well as the straw ticking, were both swamped with what had to be rainwater.  _What do I do?_ She'd never been faced with this sort of situation before. If there was a leak in the Shade village, the Shades themselves took care of it.  _I've got to… Zacharias. I've got to get Zacharias._ He knew things, somehow, about construction. It made him a valuable asset to the reconstruction team, but right now she needed to make sure Espella's room wasn't flooded before dawn. She knew how to re-stuff a straw mattress and dry out bedclothes on a line: swollen floorboards and ruined furniture, not so much.

She managed to throw off the heavy quilt and get to her feet. The floor was wet, but not flooded, and she was halfway across the room when her toes caught on something thick, sodden, and unmovable. Even as she tripped and fell, she realized it must have been the rug, but there was little she could do in the dark except fall into the table. Her right hand blossomed in pain and she cried out as she, the table, and something sharp all tumbled to the ground with a resounding crash. She heard the candle fall to her right, the metal  _ding_  echoing in her ear, and the chair hit the wall.

"Miss Eve?!" There was a muffled call and a louder, less muffled curse, audible through the wall. " _Damnit_ —hang on, Miss Eve, I'm coming!"

"Wait!" she called back to him, half-reclined on the ground and cradling her hand to her chest. "There's… glass or something, the roof is leaking or—no, the window's broken!" she called as the gale outside shifted, bringing a wave of water over her head to crash against the opposite wall. A fine mist rained down on her, but she didn't dare move with bare feet and glass possibly scattered all around her in the dark.

"Miss Eve?" Barnham burst through the door, a modern emergency flashlight in his hand. She squinted against the light, his face cast into harsh shadow as he looked down at her. "Miss Eve," he gasped, "your hand!" She looked down and sucked in a sharp breath, biting her lip at the sight of the two jagged, lightning shaped gashes crossing diagonally up her index and middle fingers. Blood poured from them, wine-dark and thick as it dripped to pool in the lap of her nightgown.

"The skylight is broken," she repeated, somewhat breathlessly. She knew it wasn't enough blood to hurt anything, but it seemed like a  _lot_. He shone the flashlight around the floor and the story became clearer: the overturned table, melting hail larger than a coin mingling with large shards of glass on the floor, a particularly jagged piece stained pink with her blood nearby, water soaking everything in a direct line from the window to the far wall. "What a mess," she sighed, looking around for a place to crawl to her feet. Her hand, already throbbing in time with her heart, began to burn with stabbing pain.

"Don't move." He stepped forward, his bare toes brushing aside the largest pieces of glass. When that proved ultimately useless, he instead found a bare piece of wet wood and stretched his leg across, leaning towards her.

"What are you—" Her question was answered when he grabbed her wet gown, carefully helping her into a standing position. Glass from the table  _plinked_ to the floor from her gown, raining glittering shards around her ankles.

"Come on." He stayed in a half-lunge, allowing her to use him as a living handhold to hop around the worst of the glass. "Might as well wait until morning." He scratched his head, looking up at the high window. "The shutters saved the other ones, I suppose. Nothing can be done about it now. Let me see your hand."

"Oh, right." She kept it palm up, letting most of the blood slide inwards instead of dripping. "Be careful of the blood." He ignored her, gently cupping her fingers in his. The adrenaline of the moment had started to wane, and yet her heart still pounded in time with her fingers as he accessed her wounds.

"You were covered in glass," he said, eyes narrowed as he turned her hand to and fro in the light. "I cannot say if glass made it into the cuts." He met her eyes, the tender regard in his expression making her feel funny.  _Woozy from blood loss_ , she excused herself. "Come along," he said in a different tone. "I'll take care of—I mean, I'll bandage it up for you."

"I can do it," she argued as she let him pull her from the room, wondering why she hadn't pulled her hand away, or better yet: why he hadn't let go. Surely the feeling of her blood on his hand was uncomfortable, right? "It's… it's not as bad as it looks," she added, despite the growing pain that made her grit her teeth.

"I don't mind." He led her downstairs, reaching behind him to steady her on the steep staircase and seating her in a chair before the glowing embers of the oven. He stroked it to life, working patiently until the bricks blazed with heat. Once the bakery was lit, the door propped open to allow heat to seep into the room, he stood and dusted off his pants, turning to look at her. "You need dry clothing."

"I brought a change of clothes." She pointed back up the stairs. "They're in my bag, in Espella's room. I think I left it beside the bed?" He nodded.

"I'll go and get them, and something to wrap your hand with. You stay here and warm up."

"No, I can help, I—" His hands found her shoulders, the touch as innocent as in her dream; a shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold rain.

"Sit, and keep your hand raised. I'll be back in a moment." The knight was in his voice, commanding and expecting obedience. She began to protest again, but a fierce shudder wracked her frame and she found herself scooting closer to the fire, her body craving the warmth of the crackling flames. He left to go back upstairs, and she drew the chair as close to the oven as she dared, listening to the snap of firewood and the crashing rumbles of thunder echoing over the ocean. She thought, oddly enough, of Mrs. Eclaire's concerns. They would be safe in a warm, modern London hotel right about now, sleeping on soft, dry beds and dreaming of nothing at all.

Barnham returned after a moment, carrying a basin with a kettle inside, a cloth thrown over his shoulder, a quilt tucked under one arm and a bottle of spirits under the other. He juggled the load through the narrow doorframe, mouth pursed in a frown.

"I'm sorry," he said as he placed his items on the counter, taking the kettle and dipping water from one of the large basins. "Your bag is soaked through. I hope nothing's ruined." She sighed, rubbing at her temple with her uninjured hand.  _Of course it is, with my luck_.

"There was nothing in there that couldn't get wet," she admitted. "I guess I can hang my clothes out tomorrow with the bed sheets."

"I'm sorry," he said again, placing the kettle on the open fire to heat the water. He chewed his lip before holding out a smaller cloth she hadn't noticed him bringing down. "I…er… this is mine. I thought you could wear it. It's clean and dry, at least." He nearly threw it at her when she reached for it, beating a quick retreat to the stairs. "I'm going to get extra bandages. Call me when you're through and I'll come back." He turned tail and ran through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

She unfolded the cloth to see it was a plain cotton tunic, the kind wore by the knights when training. Off-white to begin with, it was stained in places with dirt and grass, mended with large, clumsy stitches in others. She cast one more cursory look at the closed door, even though she was certain he'd never debase himself so far as to  _peek_ at a lady. A more watchful eye was turned towards the shuttered windows and door, making sure there was no way anyone—as if voyeurs chose windy, wet nights to do their business—could peer through a crack.

Her gown was plastered to nearly every curve, and even the warm air in the bakery was icy on her damp skin. She flipped her wet hair over her head, quickly pulling on the tunic and grimacing when it barely fell over her thighs. Looking around, she grabbed the quilt and sat on it, tucking it around her shoulders and legs near the fire. Quickly she began to warm, cheeks burning pink in the flickering light as her body heat filled the quilt.

"Miss Eve?" He knocked on the door politely. "Are you ready?"

"I am." The door opened and he poked his head through, eyeing her cautiously before stepping in with a roll of white tape in his hands.

"Hmm. Now," he came and drew up another chair beside her, just inside of her comfort zone, before taking the steaming kettle from the fire and pouring the water into the basin. He sat beside her, the basin in his lap, and began to wash the blood from her fingers with a feather-light touch.

"I can do that." She made no effort to stop him, however, and he ignored her. He looked at her only once, when he gently opened the wound with his fingers to check for glass; his eyes met hers, searching for any sign that he was hurting her. It certainly didn't feel  _good_ , but she'd felt worse, and managed a small, shy smile.  _Why on earth am I feeling bashful now?_

Was it because they'd kissed? Surely not: that was just… a bet. A won bet. She hadn't felt anything for him before; why, so suddenly, was she dreaming about him? Shy towards him? Nothing had changed from  _his_ standpoint; he was always kind and gentle with everyone. Why would it be different with her, when he might have done the same for any bleeding, injured Labyrinthian?

He put down the cloth and grabbed the spirits, pouring a generous amount over the gashes. She bit her lip as her hand lit white-hot from the inside out, the burning, pungent liquid both cold and hot on her bare skin. It was necessary to clean the wound, so she clenched her jaw against the pain.

"Forgive me." She looked up to see him watching her again.

"No, it's fine. Really." She looked away, letting her wet hair hide her face. "It doesn't hurt that badly." She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers on her palm, pressing their way up her wrist. She looked back, despite her own judgment, to find him tracing the scar she'd bore since childhood. She froze, waiting silently for him to finish, wondering what he'd do when he reached the raised, burned end where the flesh went from smooth scar to ragged lump. He paused, turning his eyes back to her and letting out a soft sigh before drawing away.

"Just a little more," he said, all business again. He patted her hand dry, taking special care near the wounds, before separating her fingers and deftly wrapping them up with strips of bandage. She pinched her lips together as the pain went back to a dull throbbing, lifting her hand to see neat, even rows of bandage that kept her fingers free to move while still protecting the gashes against the elements and holding them together.  _A knight's medicine_ , she thought, realizing that he would know the ways to bandage a hand while still allowing for movement, the ability to hold a sword or reins.

"That should be good. I'll look at it again tomorrow, in full daylight."

"Thank you." He faltered a brief moment, and she was shocked at the pained expression on his face. She blinked, however, and it was replaced by his usual confident grin.

"Of course. Anything for you, Miss Eve." His hand grasped hers for one more brief moment before he stood up, letting it drop.

"Can I—ask you something?" He stirred the fire, poking it back to full blaze with one quick look at her wet hair. When he didn't answer, she ventured on carefully. "Why… why the curiosity?" His arm froze mid-poke, face hidden in shadow from the angle of the fire. At first, she wasn't sure if he caught her meaning, but she couldn't let it go. Every look he'd given her this evening was tied together in some way, some way leading back to that stupid bet, and she would be damned if she couldn't unravel the puzzle and lay out the answer to study and triumph over.

He let out another breath, less forceful than a sigh but just as despondent, before facing her with a too-guarded expression.

"Curiosity for curiosity's sake."

"That's a lot of tosh if I've ever heard it." His mouth opened, closed, and he huffed.

"I thought  _you_ of all people could figure that out on your own."

"I didn't realize I was meant to." He frowned, running a hand through his hair before putting the poker back in its place. "Was it… an excuse?"

"'Twas no falsehood," he spat gruffly. "I meant it when I claimed curiosity."

"But  _why_?" They seemed to be going in circles. "I don't understand," she finally admitted, angry at herself for not seeing the solution that, to him at least, was obvious.

"You didn't feel anything?" he asked, and for a moment she was utterly lost. Then, as he glared her down with increasing impatience, she thought about the kiss. The strange heaviness in her limbs, the insistent heat of his mouth, the way he'd managed to get three in before her mind had processed one.

"Well yes, but—" She stood, drawing the quilt closer around her thin frame. "My feelings don't help me understand  _your_ actions." He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.

"Must I spell it out for you? You were always better at finding ulterior motives."

"That's true… but I never had to find yours." He stared blankly. "I just can't figure you out sometimes, Zacharias Barnham." His full name seemed to spark something within him, enough that he straightened off the counter and pushed his hands further beneath each arm.

"What's there to figure out?"

"Why  _me_?" Perhaps that was an easier place to start from. Curiosity couldn't be explained away, according to him. Maybe his choice could. He frowned, inclined his head, mouth twisting to the side.

"I admire you," he began. "I respect you. I'm curious—forgive me, but I know no better term. I want to know everything." As he spoke, he stepped forward until they were close enough to touch, his bare toes millimeters from hers. "Mostly, I wished to know if this feeling—this curiosity—would be quenched with one gesture. If it might be a whim in more than name."

"Was it?" Was that all it was? Did she feel the extinguished flame as it passed from him, sending the heat through her body?

"No." He swallowed hard, expression intense. "It became an inferno." It became sticky-hot, as if they stood not in the bakery, but in the Courtroom, right beside the leaping flames. The quilt was suffocating but she dare not throw it off, afraid to show her state of undress, afraid of burning him alive and being consumed herself, afraid that their senses of reason might be lost to the burning stake, that he would start something that she couldn't, or wouldn't, be able to stop.

"What?" The question scratched her dry throat, rough and sharp. He reached out with one hand, once again tucking a stray curl behind her ear. It was still damp, and stayed put, but his fingers traced down until they reached her chin. It was too hot; she couldn't breathe. She couldn't move either, her fingers part of the quilt embracing her, a cloth Daphne rooted to the flour-dusted floorboards.

"May I try to abate it once more?" he asked a mere whisper barely audible over the pop of a log in the fire. "Will you allow it?"

"I told you," she gasped, floating in a molten sea and grasping onto her last lifeline. "I told you that it wouldn't happen again." He bent his head, tilting her chin up until she felt his nose tickling the edge of hers. She leaned away, just enough so that his eyes weren't blurry and she could see the single-minded conviction burning within them.

"If you truly don't wish for this, tell me to stop. Tell me plainly, Miss Eve." His thumb stroked her jaw, testing the skin beneath with a calloused touch. "You won't have to worry; I'll never ask it of you again. We can remain as close friends for the rest of our acquaintance."  _There was another option?_ She knew there was, of course she did, but it was such an outlandish notion. Her? Eve Belduke, local social fringe-walker and former leader of witches, who had never had more than one real friend before the last few years?

"What do you even  _want_  from me?" she mumbled, face burning, slowly smoldering to ash. He bent further and bumped his lips against hers, not a real kiss but rather a silent answer to her question.  _What's in it for me_? She wanted to ask, ever selfish, but he was already answering her questions just by being this close, by daring to touch her. He'd offer her the immolation she was denied, cast her into the hellfire like the witch she was. He'd burn her alive from the inside out until she begged for mercy, for water, or—she was afraid—for more.

 _Tell me to stop_. He would, she knew; he was noble like that. But a small part of her didn't want stopping, didn't even want to consider the notion. She wasn't at all sure of her feelings, everything moving too fast thanks to a damn card game, no time to consider and doubt and… even perhaps ruin what might otherwise be a good thing. What was life without a little risk, too fast and already done without thinking over the consequences? She felt odd, unable to go back to the bland world of not-knowing but, at the same time, unsure of what she wanted  _exactly_.

She was curious.

"Well." Her lips tickled his and she thought she felt him shiver.

"Tell me to stop. Do it now." She didn't reply, and he angled his head to brush across her lips warningly. "Or now." Still stoic, unrepentant, going to her death calmly—for her would be her death, now. She was already dying; the strangely intimate details that she couldn't seem to place together, clues that were encrypted, puzzle pieces that didn't fit—they were killing her.

It was just  _Barnham_ , Zacharias Barnham, the man she knew as a friend, a coworker, an Inquisitor. Smart, sharp, admittedly handsome, muscles and white gleaming teeth and scars that somehow added to the rugged masculinity he emanated. But it was so peculiar, how the things she felt now didn't fit in with the sexless, needless image of him in her mind. Zacharias Barnham, whose unshaved stubble tugged at her skin, whose lips were slightly chapped, whose body was hot and hard and pressed against her at every angle, who clung to her as though he fully expected her to bolt at any moment.

She passively let him do what he pleased, her mind working in overdrive to take the two separate versions of him, squash them together, and come out with a man she still recognized. Then, sensing her hesitation, the lack of response, he pulled back and she found her mouth cold, mindlessly leaning forward to chase the heat. He made a desperate noise in his throat, one that didn't belong either to the old Barnham or this new, after-hours one she had just discovered, and yanked her back to him.

Things seemed to come in flashes of coherency, happening far too fast to keep up with. They were just breathing at each other, panting almost, and then his hands were tangling in her drying hair and she jerked when he reached a snag. She was standing with her back to the fire, then her back to the counter, then  _on_ the counter, her thighs digging into the edge as they shifted apart, allowing him to stand between them and stay flush with her.

His lips were on hers, then his tongue; she copied him, testing out new things, seeing what made him slump against her, what made him whimper into her mouth. She moaned, embarrassed at the sound that didn't seem to come from her at all, and yet undeniably hers. Her hand didn't hurt as much, though her whole body ached with a frustrated, energetic urge to move, to be moved.

The quilt was gone, lost to the opposite side of the counter. She felt her stomach exposed to the night air, knew he could see everything. He wasn't looking, though, his eyes trained on her face. His hands were there, though, on her hips, fingers against her skin, splayed over the thin straps of her underwear. He slid his hands down, over her thighs and back again, a look of utter amazement on his face. She fidgeted, staring at the abandoned chair and trying to play catch up, to decide when and how it came to this.

"Eve." The omission of a prefix made it sound odd, though she supposed he couldn't go about calling her 'Miss Eve' forever, especially after having her tongue in his mouth just a few seconds prior. He slid, and she thought he was falling, only to have him on his knees in the next moment, nuzzling into the side of her thigh. It suddenly grew even hotter, warmer than midsummer's noon, stuffier than when she was sandwiched between him and her own body heat inside the quilt. All because he was rubbing his cheeks against something that had never felt another's touch, his roughened skin scratchy in a weirdly satisfying way.

Her hand found his hair, clumsy because it was her left and not her bandaged right one. The strands were thick, catching her fingers in soft clumps. She scratched his scalp, petting him, and he opened his eyes to look up at her. They were dark, bands of cool grey around dilated pupils, scorching her as they soaked up the sight before them.  _Now_ , he mouthed, and she didn't knew if he meant it as a query, a reminder to make him stop, or a promise of what was to come.

"Z-Zacharias." His eyes burned even darker somehow, his hands tightening on her thighs. He watched her, as carefully as he did when tending to her wound, as his fingers crawled their way up to the apex, to the elastic of her panties, dipping beneath the waistband and tugging, tugging, exposing her to the night air. She shivered, one part of her wondering in disbelief that she didn't stop this madness while the other writhed within her like a wildcat, sending tingles up her spine and churning desire in her lower stomach.

_Now._

He kissed her there, ignoring her hand tightening on his hair, pulling him unthinkingly in her shock. She was frozen, staring over his head to the oven, to the flickering shadows on the walls, unsure of what goal he was working towards. It felt odd, slippery and faltering, not unpleasant but very, very, strange.

Then his tongue ventured out, and found fire.

Her injured hand protested, but she couldn't stop from sliding back, forcing her to let go of his hair and prop herself up before she tumbled backwards over the counter. Her nails dug into the wood, a series of short gasps stealing her breath before she managed to lift her hips with a soft cry that sounded more like a bird than her own throat. He forced her back, steadying her with his arms, her legs on his shoulders and a warning sound vibrating all through her, from toes to head and back down to where he was driving her mad.

It was good, too good, sparking a hunger in her that she hadn't felt in a long time. Something that she'd  _never_ felt for anyone else, or at least none that she could recall. She was lost for endless minutes in a desperate hunt for achievement, unable to stop the raw, coarse sounds tearing from her throat. He didn't seem to mind; on the contrary, they only spurred him on. He was always a fast learner, in the Courtroom, on the job, even here. He said he wanted to know everything about her—he was certainly learning, finding what worked and using it to his advantage, calculating the strength needed to keep her thighs from closing around him.

It occurred to her, mere moments before it was too late, that she didn't want this  _here._ Not on the bakery counter, at any rate. She whined, the sound building in her chest, a miracle that it came out as a solid, understandable word.

"S-Stop!" He was on his feet immediately, concern in his eyes, guilt, remorse that he'd crossed some imaginary line that he hadn't known of, and that he'd somehow caused her anguish. She took a few steadying breaths, legs clenching together in a desperate attempt to chase that high she was so  _close_ to, wordlessly reaching for him. He leaned in, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm.

"Eve, pardon me, I'm—are you hurt? What—what—" He looked her over, eyeing her wounded hand, begging her without outright words to tell him what he did wrong. She took one last breath, gulping in air, licking her lips.

"Not here." He frowned in confusion. "Not here," she repeated, waving her hand at the bakery. "A… a bed." It was hard to explain, and she didn't quite understand it herself; there was just the strongest conviction that her first time with anyone else—moreover, with  _him_ —would be somehow wasted on a counter.

"Oh." There was a sigh of relief. "Um, now? My bed? Or do you mean—" He trailed off, happy to let her fill in the gaps. She looked down, away from his eager to please expression, blushing when she saw the tented state of his trousers.

"Now is… fine." He backed away and let her up on her feet, trying to subtly shift himself out of view and into a comfortable state.

"Here, lemme just—" He shut the oven door, making sure no embers could fly out before walking around the counter, draping the quilt over the empty dining table. "After you?" He pointed to the stairs and she slowly climbed them, her legs still shaky.

"Your room is?" Neighbor to Espella's, she assumed, and wasn't wrong. He held the door open and shined the flashlight in. The light fell on things out of order, small glimpses of the life he had collected in his own, private space; his armor, a chest that had seen better days, a worn-out writing desk, Constantine, a sleeping ball of fluff in the corner. He sat the flashlight upside down on the nightstand, its light focused on the roof and casting the bed next to it in a soft glow. She stared at it, at the unkempt sheets thrown back in haste, the pillow sideways on the floor; even as she looked, he sheepishly tossed it back on the bed before wringing his hands nervously.

"You, ah—feel free to—" He trailed off, scratching his head. She felt his uncertainty, in the same boat as to proper protocol in a situation like this. "Would you… would you mind letting me see you?" he asked quickly, his face already schooled in an way that she knew he expected a denial. She looked down, to the parts of her already exposed to him, and then back to meet his gaze.

"If you do the same." He looked surprised, but pleased, and nodded. She turned, shaking her hair down her back before taking off the tunic. It smelled of him, of this room, she realized, and the intimacy of it caught her off guard once more. To wear his clothing against her bare skin, against her nakedness, spoke of a deeper relationship.

She turned back to see him already down to nothing at all, clearly less shy about his nudity. She squeaked at the sight of his back, scars crisscrossing in uneven patterns as the result of his harsh training at the garrison. His head whipped around and he dropped his shirt, cloth fluttering to the ground as his jaw went slack and his lips parted. His eyes honed in on her chest, dipped to her stomach and back again, cheeks growing noticeably darker despite the dim light of the room.

She wanted to shout at him for openly staring, but she found herself drawn to his body as well. His chest was just as scarred as his back, large marks and little tics, thin scrapes and thick wedges of shining, healed skin, delicious skin drawn over hard muscle, defined pectorals, a definite line between each ab, the V of his pelvis drawing down like an arrow towards—she jerked her head up, unable to look for long and cursing her own virginal naïveté.

"Eve?" He came closer, brushing the curled strands of hair behind her shoulders, feeling her skin in a lazy way. As if they had all the time in the world, instead of just one night. They did have more than  _one_  night, though, didn't they? She hadn't thought about it, but there was no reason to suspect this might be a single occasion. It would be laughable to think so. She wasn't the sort to let anyone, much less a man, this close on a whim. And he had said himself that he wanted so much more from her, hadn't he?

"We don't have to do anything. If you changed your mind, 'tis fine with me." She didn't answer, still puzzling over the whole 'one night' deal. "We can just go to sleep if you want. You'll sleep in here, won't you? You don't have to…" He chewed on his lip. "But I'd like you to. I just want to feel you. Is that alright?"

"Will you… do it again?"

"Do what?" She cleared her throat, looking down at their feet, at his strong legs against her slender ones.

"What you were doing downstairs. Will you do it again, now?"

"Yes." His voice dropped to a warm whisper. "Get on the bed, and I'll do it as long as you like."

"Just a little." She walked past him, the mattress springs groaning lightly as she sat, and then tucked her cold feet just underneath the sheet, still askew to the footboard. He crawled up after her, resting on his knees between her thighs before getting onto his stomach, still watching her through his lashes. She tucked the pillow beneath her head, and he laid his chin on her stomach until she was settled and comfortable. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair again, tracing the line of the scar across his brow, tickling his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch with a smile, humming lightly. "Now."

He nodded, shuffling down the bed until he could dip his arms around her legs again, settling her thighs back on his shoulders. The first touch of his mouth wasn't such a startling concept, but it was still new. He was different in his approach, taking time with her instead of being overeager, kindling the fire instead of dousing it with kerosene. Her bandaged fingers couldn't clutch the pillow, but they still tried. Closer to the roof now, she could hear the storm still raging, the shutters over his window beating frantically as the wind tried to open it.

She felt the inferno that he spoke of as it engulfed her, the fierce pounding of her own heart drowning out the crashing thunder as she melted, skin and muscle pouring into the mattress, her very bones satisfied, his name on her lips and her hands keeping his head in place. She noticed the latter first, loosing her hold so that he could get a breath, afraid that she would suffocate him while trying to regain some control over her lungs.

"Oh.  _Oh_." She couldn't stop panting. The flashlight's glow seemed to dance on the ceiling, but maybe that was her moving, because it stopped when he came back up the mattress to look her in the eyes, pressing his body carefully to mold with hers and happily whispering her name before pressing his nose into the crook of her neck like a cat seeking affection. She felt about as disoriented as she first had upon waking, but this was a good, non-disconcerting sort of confusion.

Her bandaged hand rested on top of his head, her body happily soaking in the warmth he offered despite the sheen of sweat she'd gathered since lying down. When she was fully aware of herself again, she reached the left down between them, tracing the pattern of scars from his chest to his navel, then following the line of his hip down to the apex of his thighs. He stilled, perfectly stone-like as her fingers shyly ran up the length of him, tracing and teasing without meaning to.

"Is this alright?" she asked, offering him the same courtesy. He nodded wordlessly, teeth worrying his lower lip. She pushed him lightly down to take her place, and he lay demurely on his back while she knelt beside him, stroking and touching with the pads of her fingers. She was afraid to do more, afraid to ask how sensitive it was,  _he_ was. It was softer than she'd imagined, or perhaps it was soft only because her touches were, because his sighs were.

"I don't know what to do," she finally whispered to him, blushing as she fully swapped their positions, the wetness on her thighs rubbing onto his leg as she buried her blushing face against his strong neck.

"You're doing great," he assured her, and the tight control his voice seemed to attest to it as well. He turned his head, nudging her up with his nose just to press his forehead against hers. "I dreamed of this," he said suddenly, with a shudder she could feel run through her from her fingers. "Of us this way."

"Show me what you like," she begged. It was easier with him, he was always the striver, going forth into the unknown with nothing but his wits and a sword. She had no such luxury, used to living by orders, her one real foray into independence nearly causing a suicide.

She didn't want to hurt him.

His hand found hers, wrapping her tiny fingers around him and quietly showing her how to move, hips bucking as a low hiss escaped from between his teeth. He let go and she continued the motions, adding her own spin, pausing in places, going slower here, faster there, 'losing' her grip just to tap and brush, even barely tickling with her nails.

"Eve… _Eve_ …." His hand found the back of her head, forcing her forehead to stay pressed against his as he panted helplessly. She worked herself free after a moment, bending to kiss his cheek, his ear, his neck, distracting him from her hand. Lost in the motions, her tongue darted out, tasting him, licking over his racing pulse before nipping hard, the flavor of soap and skin exquisite. He jerked, breathless sounds working their way up from his chest, hand fisting the corner of the mattress.

He grabbed her suddenly, catching her by surprise as he held her still, grinding up into her fingers once, twice, three times before letting out a broken moan. His essence covered her hand, spilling over his stomach as he fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily as the last few convulsions shook his body. She kissed his forehead, filled with a strange sort of affection that warmed her from within, her sticky hand pressed unthinkingly against his chest.

"Eve." He blinked, catching her eye and offering a crooked, goofy half-grin. It vanished, however, when he looked down at the mess on his stomach, a wincing grimace taking his place. "O-Oh, Eve, forgive me," he muttered, as though he had any input on when or how such a thing occurred. "I'll—let me get something to clean this up—no!" he huffed when she nonchalantly wiped it on her leg, disregarding the fact that  _she_ had been all over his chin earlier. He stumbled to his feet, tripping in the part of the sheet still knotted on the ground. "Wait here."

"Where—" But he was already gone, out the door and naked as the day he was born.  _I suppose that doesn't matter._ She listened to the howling wind.  _Who'll see him?_ She lay down on the lumpy mattress, pressing her face into the lone pillow and smelling him there. His scent surrounded her, iron and steel, polish and dog fur and man. So different from the earthy bakery smells downstairs, or the soft fragrance of her flower filled home.

She turned to face the wall, yawning. The act had taken a lot out of her, her wrist sore, her body pleasantly aching, hair dry but covered in sweat and fluids. She made a mental note to wash his sheets tomorrow when she was hanging Espella's out to dry, if the weather permitted. Perhaps she could convince him to risk Mrs. Eclaire's wrath and keep the shop closed, to hang them downstairs to drip in the fire-heated air.

"Here." A wet cloth landed on her shoulder and she turned to see him clean, his stomach and chest glistening slightly in the light from the flashlight. She took it, running the cool, refreshing cloth between her legs and over her neck, scrubbing the worst of the sweat away before tossing it onto the windowsill. She'd take care of it tomorrow, with any luck. He crawled back into the bed, throwing the sheet over them both before collapsing beside her with a sigh.

"Didn't ask," he mumbled, sounding half-asleep already. "We did it backwards, anyway. But I wanna court you proper."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't." She monopolized the pillow, dragging it around to her front and turning onto her stomach, tucking it beneath her arms. He rolled halfway on top of her, arm slung around her waist and cheek pressed between her shoulder blades.

"So that's a yes?"

"What do you think?" She was so sleepy, and his arm was warm, his weight comforting.

"We can still do this too, right?"

"I thought this was supposed to abate that curiosity, Sir Knight." He chuckled, vibrating against her spine.

"You keep giving me new things to be curious about." He rubbed his nose into her hair, and then had to sit up and sneeze. "You're the hardest puzzle I've ever come across."

"Well," she hummed as he moved her hair off her shoulder before returning to his new spot, "I'm glad I'm not alone in the thought."


End file.
